


train wreck

by I_wrote_my_own_deliverance



Category: Hamilton - Fandom
Genre: Alexander Hamilton Whump, Gen, Hamilton - Freeform, Poor Alexander Hamilton, Sexual Assault, TW Sexual Assault, alexander hamilton sexual assault, do i hate myself? maybe, this is a rant. also self help. i think. maybe., trigger warning, unrelated to picking up the pieces, yes this is my coping mechanism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:53:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26674708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_wrote_my_own_deliverance/pseuds/I_wrote_my_own_deliverance
Summary: He is no longer pretty.And no one is coming to save him.In no way is this fic related to the Picking Up The Pieces universe. This is just my rant space.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 17





	train wreck

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, welcome to me Working Through Some Shit. In other words, I am once again using fics as a way to cope. Enjoy my self-therapy session.

His feet feel numb. His legs are shaking, trembling as he struggles to stand. 

_This can’t be happening_. 

He feels like he is hovering above his body, watching everything happen from a distance. 

_This can’t be happening_.

At the same time, he feels trapped, like a prisoner clawing at the immovable stone walls stacked around him. 

_This can’t be happening._

He takes a step and feels his foot fall through the floor, as if he isn’t real. As if he is a ghost. 

_This can’t be happening._

_This can’t be happening._

_This can’t be happening._

Downstairs, he can hear the party dwindling down. The door is opening and closing, slamming as drunk high schoolers stumble outside. 

In the dark room upstairs, Alex holds up his hands, the outlines of them showing as light shines from the crack beneath the door. 

They’re shaking, but he can’t feel it. 

He can feel the other hands, though. The ones who swept over his body, slick like oil and creeping up his thighs, his chest, his neck, his wrists. 

On the parts of his body he can feel, he aches. The bruises will inevitably appear around his neck, circling it like a cruel necklace, a string of black and blue jewels. 

There will be a bracelet of the same jewels around his wrists, phantom hands holding him in place while the thought screams around and around his head like a siren.

_This can’t be happening, this can’t be happening, this can’t be happening._

His voice feels hoarse, whether from the choked words forced out from between his lips or the way that his throat was crushed, he doesn’t know. 

_“No, I don’t want to, no, stop-”_

The voice that slithered its way into his ear, curling around his protests and bringing hot breath and the thick stench of beer.

_“Don’t-don’t pretend you don’t want this.”_ Heavy breathing in his ear, a body pressing down on top of him, crushing his chest.  _“So pretty...so nice…”_

Tears rolling down his face silently, staring into the darkness and wishing someone would break down the door, someone would save him,  anyone-

Somehow he is out of the room, down the stairs, standing in the front entry hall. Crumpled red plastic cups and beer cans litter the floor, which is splashed with spilled, sticky alcohol. He can’t remember how he got there. He doesn’t remember opening the door, stepping down the steps. 

Alexander raises his eyes to the mirror hanging on the wall. His eyes are empty, a dull, broken brown surrounded by swollen, red lids. His hair is tangled, a messy rats nest framing his pale face. Lower, looking to his neck: the necklace of bruises already starting to make an appearance, blooming unwanted flowers along his throat. 

He is no longer pretty. 

And there is no one coming to save him. 


End file.
